These Three Years, One Week, Five Days Gone By
by thexwalrus
Summary: It's been three years, one week, five days since it happened. Three years, one week, five days since John had talked to his flatmate. Three years, one week, five days too long. A heaping pile of fluff topped with a dollop of angst because, well, it's Moffat's world, sadly. Part of what I hope will become a series of interwoven oneshots.


It had been three years, one week, five days, two hours since John had heard his phone make the little bell noise he'd come to connect to adventure, to something eccentric, to someone more perfect than he'd ever known.

In that three years, one week, five days, a lot had happened to John Watson, M. D.

The blog had died along with… along with him. He didn't have any stories of brilliance and daring to share with the world, so he just didn't share. He withdrew into 221B Baker Street – he couldn't move, because he knew that would kill Mrs. Hudson, losing both her boys so closely. They'd lost enough already. And by withdrawing into 221B Baker Street, he became depressed, hermit-like… That was until the day Mrs. Hudson stormed up the stairs and fixed him with a look that could frighten even the bravest of men.

"John Watson you are wasting your abilities. We've all got it hard right now, but that world out there needs you more than ever. Now you go get cleaned up, I'll make you a quick lunch, and then you've got an interview with Lestrade at Scotland Yard."

No one could deny Mrs. Hudson anything – well, except Mycroft, but no one ever counted him – so he did as she asked, putting on a clean jumper and shirt and a nice pair of tan trousers. He grabbed his cane – the psychosomatic limp was back (stress, he figured, stress and trauma) – and ate a few sandwiches with Mrs. Hudson before she practically chased him out of the door and hailed him a taxi.

At Scotland Yard, he was greeted by an awkward Donovan (who muttered a quiet "sorry" and wouldn't meet his eye – _sorry for what?_ he wondered. _Sorry for calling him a freak, sorry for being a bitch? Sorry he's gone? _– and a sorrowful Lestrade. He hadn't seen Gregory since the funeral, and he'd gotten thinner, his eyes were more hollow – yeah, he wasn't doing too well either.

"This 'interview,'" he confessed as they walked to his office, "it's more of a formality than anything, really, you've got the job if you want it."

John nodded. "And what job's that?"

"Head of forensics."

He almost burst out laughing – almost. Sh… He would've loved to be here for this, because John would hold power over Anderson. John would be Anderson's _boss. _Anderson's job was in his hands.

"And yeah, Anderson's still here," Lestrade continued. "I know he woulda got a kick outta that."

He smiled just a little and nodded again. "I'll take it," he told Gregory, who grinned and waved Donovan over to sort out his paperwork.

Working with Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson proved to be… well, nothing compared to the work he was used to. He tried his hardest to be like his old companion – tried to deduce as much as he could – but it wasn't the same, especially with a bitter Anderson breathing down his neck. He did the job very well, though, and through it, he met a neighbor of a victim of a murder – Mary Morstan.

She was pretty but not stunning, thin but not model-thin, just the right height for him, and she was sweet, and charming, and she had a nice laugh. She texted him, called him, went to dinner with him, let him spend the night – she let him think while he worked, she laughed at his pathetic jokes, and she was honestly interested in John, even after a date (he was so used to them never speaking to him again that this was incredibly unusual and hard to adjust to). So they dated.

And dated.

And dated.

A year into things, after John had practically moved in with her already, he proposed rather casually while they watched the telly together on the couch. She squealed and kissed him silly and told him "of course, of course, of course."

They were married four months later.

The domestic life irked John a bit, for reasons he never really understood. He found himself lying in bed, hoping that something would happen and Lestrade would have to call him and have him run halfway across London to look at some body in a grimy apartment. He stayed late, went in early, picked up extra work from his team that they couldn't quite puzzle out. _(You were right, everyone really is an idiot.)_ Mary never questioned it, never nagged or whined about not seeing her husband enough. She took the time with him where she could, and often made him lunches with sweet notes inside.

He dealt with "domestic bliss" for about a year.

He'd had enough, and he'd filed for divorce. Mary, bless her, was understanding – "You're clearly not interested, John, and I'm not offended, I'm not. Sometimes you think something can fix you, but it can't, and I know I'm not enough. I wish it'd worked, I did, but we'll be okay."

He moved his junk back to Baker Street, Mycroft having paid for the rent since… since it'd happened. Mrs. Hudson didn't even bat an eyelash at his return – just hugged him and helped him bring a few boxes up before dusting and straightening while John and Lestrade brought the rest.

And so his life resumed at home – funny, how much he'd missed the place with the hideously patterned wallpaper and odd stains on the kitchen tile and the smiley face in yellow spray paint on the wall. It was just like he'd left it – just like… just like _he'd_ left it, too.

Lestrade sometimes joined him for dinner. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson did. He found himself opening up just a little to them both.

Mrs. Hudson must've noticed, because one night when she was eating dinner with him, she asked him a question he'd never really wanted to answer.

"Doctor Watson, why didn't it work out with Mary?"

His mind flew through the miserable months of marriage, trying to pinpoint what exactly had driven him away.

Was it that she ate dinner with him, or always got the milk? Was it because the kitchen was always immaculate and well-stocked not with experiments and human remains but with food? Was it because she gave him his quiet time while he was busy, that she never interrupted his thoughts with pointless favors? She never asked him to grab her phone when it was in her pocket. She talked to him, but noticed when he left. She couldn't understand him just by glancing at him and know everything she needed to.

She wasn't him.

Contrary to most people realizing they're in love with their very male, very cold (to romance, at least), very _dead _best friends when they thought they were heterosexual, it didn't hit him like a ton of bricks or anything cliché like that. It was more like a sigh, like a weight he hadn't noticed had been removed from his chest. He felt he could breathe easier, could smile a little, because somehow everything had just fallen into place.

"I think you know why, Mrs. Hudson," he said with a gentle grin. Mrs. Hudson returned it, but sadly – so yes, she'd gotten his implication.

Six months flew by, filled with work and visits to the cemetery every week (sometimes with someone, often times alone). He wasn't happy, but he was busy, and he could almost pretend that was the same thing.

It had been three years, one week, five days, two hours since John had heard his phone make the little bell noise he'd come to connect to adventure. It happened as he rode to work in a cab, and he couldn't quite believe it. He picked up his phone and examined it, scrutinizing the words on the screen: _1 new text message._

He clicked it open.

_ Until this evening._

_ - SH_

It couldn't be true.

Okay, it was his trademark cryptic style, his trademark signature, and it did come from a number he'd had saved under his name (a few cases required extra precaution, and Lestrade had given him a multitude of phones to use. John had every number.) but it _just couldn't be. _It was not only improbable, but illogical and _impossible._ He'd had nightmares about that day every night since it happened – he knew what he witnessed, what had been on the ground. He knew he was gone.

He shook his head and shut his phone off, but he couldn't delete the text.

Some part of him had gripped onto the tiny shred of hope and was holding on for dear life.

It was work as usual – a quick investigation condemned a man with murder, and Anderson's subpar work had almost let him free, so John tore him a new one for that just because. Lestrade couldn't help but smirk as John walked by him to leave.

"Evening, John."

"Evening, Greg."

He sat down to a quiet dinner alone before taking a seat in his chair with his cane, a book, and a nice cuppa. He had just gotten comfy and opened the copy of _All Quiet on the Western Front_ he'd found lying around when someone knocked on the door. _Lovely._

He pushed himself up and limped down the stairs, not bothering to check who it was before swinging the door wide open.

His jaw dropped. His cane clattered to the floor. An odd mix of rage and joy bubbled in the pit of his stomach, and his fist clenched at his side.

"Sherlock," he whispered. It had been three years, one week, five days, fourteen hours since he'd said that name.

"Hello, John," he replied, voice as grumbly and deep as John remembered. His hair was still the shaggy black mop of curls. His purple scarf was tied around his neck, tucked into the black coat. It was remarkable, how alike they looked.

John launched himself forward and punched him in the jaw.

The man stumbled to the ground, clutching his cheekbone. John kept punching and punching, not caring that the guy was down. He was taking this _too far_ – it was too much to impersonate him like this.

"Stop, stop, please," the man pleaded, voice cracking a little. John stopped, looking down as the man looked up, and oh god –

"It's really you."

It was barely audible, drowned out by passing cars and the general sounds of London in the evening, but Sherlock smiled warmly up at him.

"Yes, it really is."

John grabbed his hand and pulled him up so they were standing back in the doorway, then tugged him into the tightest hug he'd ever given.

Sherlock's arms knew where to go, surprisingly enough. There was no awkward flail because it was unexpected, no "what the bloody hell," no protest at all. Sherlock was hugging back with all the force John was, his bruising cheek resting on John's hair, John's face buried in his chest. For once, he was glad for the height difference – he didn't need Sherlock to see him crying.

Neither of them wanted to let go, so they hugged and hugged in the doorway of 221B Baker St. Sherlock would occasionally mumble something – probably irrelevant – into John's hair, as if to confirm that _yes, this is happening, this isn't a dream. _John's hands occasionally gripped harder on the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer.

For the first time in three years, John felt like laughing, like talking about everything, like screaming at the man in front of him about how much of a _complete and total arse you are, Sherlock, do you know how much you hurt everyone? Couldn't even enlighten your fucking best friend, I see. Thank you, really, I appreciate having to not only pull myself together but keep Mrs. Hudson just this side of okay, too. Excellent job, Mr. Holmes._

"Sherlock," he said, embarrassed by how his voice squeaked and how tiny he sounded. He pulled back a little, arms still wound around Sherlock, and looked up. "You've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do."

Sherlock actually laughed and smiled, nodding. "I do. Shall we go upstairs?"

John nodded and shut the door, hand clasped with Sherlock's as he led him up to their living room, smiling all the way.

_God, I've missed him._


End file.
